Broken Promise: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  “Whatever,” Gaynor said. “When do you want to do this?”

  Marshall looked at his watch again. Sarita could see him thinking, timing things.

  “One hour,” Marshall said. “Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t.”

  Gaynor ended the call. Marshall looked at Sarita and smiled. “We’re going to be rich, babe.”

  “Fifty thousand is not rich,” she said. “Even someone as poor as me knows fifty thousand is not rich. You’re a fool.”

  “I’m gonna finish my sandwich and then I gotta go,” he said. He put a hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him. Kissed her. “You just wait. I’m going to take care of you.”

  • • •

  Marshall got a seat in the far corner of the food court. It wasn’t as busy as he’d hoped, eleven o’clock on a weekday morning. There were a few seniors sitting around drinking coffee, some of them clustered together, shooting the shit. What they did, Marshall knew, was arrive here before the shops opened, do their mall walk, traipsing from one end of the place to the other twenty or thirty times in their goofy-looking running shoes; then they bought some coffee and doughnuts and sat around and talked for three hours because they had nothing else in the world to do. This was their last stop before they hit Davidson Place.

  Marshall bought himself a newspaper and a Coke and sat at a table that gave him an unobstructed view of the hot-dog stand and the nearby garbage receptacle. It was one of those units with one opening for trash, another for recyclables, and a place on top to leave your plastic tray. The food court was at the end of a broad hall, which meant there was only one direction Bill Gaynor could come from.

  Ten minutes after Marshall had settled in, he saw a man approaching.

  The man was carrying a baby up against his chest with one arm, and an eco bag hung from the end of his other arm. At first Marshall thought, Who brings a baby to pay off a blackmailer? Then he thought, Oh, yeah, his nanny didn’t show up for work today.

  Duh.

  Marshall tried to keep his focus on the sports pages of the Times Union, the closest thing you could get to a local paper these days. Every few seconds he’d steal a quick glance at the man.

  He strolled past where Marshall was sitting, heading in the direction of the garbage.

  Marshall felt a tingling all over. So close to so much money. When Gaynor had his back to him, Marshall could not take his eyes off the bag.

  Gaynor reached the trash, took a quick look around, pushed open the hinged door, and shoved the bag inside. Baby still in his arm, he turned and walked back in the direction he’d come from. Marshall waited until he was out of sight.

  “All right,” Marshall said, getting up, leaving his paper and Coke behind. He began walking briskly toward the trash.

  At a table just a few steps away from it, an elderly man cut short his discussion with three other seniors and jumped to his feet. He moved—a lot faster than Marshall thought he should have been able to at his age—toward the trash bin.

  “Get out of my way, old man,” Marshall said under his breath.

  The old man had nothing in his hands to throw away. Once he’d reached the trash, he opened the door with one hand and reached in with the other.

  “Hey!” Marshall shouted from thirty feet away. “Hey!”

  He closed the distance in a second, put his hand on the man’s arm and started to pull it out.

  “Get your paws off me,” the old man said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Marshall asked.

  The man said, “Guy just threw away a perfectly good bag.” He’d found it and was pulling it through the opening. “See? That’s a good bag. No good reason to throw away that—”

  “Give that to me,” Marshall said. “That’s mine.”

  “I found it!” the man said. Then, seeing that it had paper stuffed in it, he added, “There’s something in here.”

  “It’s mine. Let go of it. He left it there for me, you dumb bastard.”

  The man was no match for Marshall, who ripped it from his hands. The man yelped in pain. “You twisted my arm, you motherfucker!”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! But it’s mine!”

  Marshall ran.

  Behind him, the old guy shouted, “Hey! He broke my arm!”

  Just keep moving. Don’t look back.

  Marshall nearly ran into the glass doors on the way to the parking lot, they were so slow to retract. He had his keys out, unlocked the van from fifty feet away, jumped in behind the wheel, and keyed the ignition. He tossed the bag onto the seat next to him, threw the van into drive, and tore out of the lot as fast as he could.

  A mile down the road, he pulled into a Walmart lot, stopped the car, and reached over for the bag.

  His heart was pounding and his shirt was soaked with sweat. What the hell was that old guy doing, rooting around in the trash? Who needed a used eco bag that badly?

  Marshall thought the bag should have been a little heavier than it was. But then again, when was the last time he’d carried fifty grand? How much was that supposed to weigh?

  Gaynor had placed some newspapers over the top of the bag. Marshall tossed them into the foot well in front of the passenger seat, expecting to see bundles of cash with rubber bands around them.

  There was an envelope. A business envelope. A very thin business envelope.

  “Jesus, the guy didn’t write a check, did he?”

  He tore it open, found a single sheet of paper inside. Gaynor had written the following:

  Didn’t feel safe leaving money in trash. Have different plan for delivery. Call me.

  FORTY-SIX

  AGNES tapped lightly on the hospital room door before entering. She found Marla sitting up in bed, sipping some tea from her breakfast tray.

  “Haven’t they taken that away yet?” Agnes asked.

  “They came by, but I told them I was still working on it,” Marla said. “The tea is cold, but that’s okay.”

  “I’ll call down, tell them to bring you some hot.”

  “No, please, Mom. I know that whatever you ask them to do, they’ll jump, but I just want to be treated like any other patient.”

  Agnes smiled. “You’re not just any other patient. You’re my daughter. And if there was ever a time when I was willing to throw my weight around, it’s now.” She rested a hand on her daughter’s bare arm, inches above her bandaged wrist. “But the truth is, I’m getting you out of here. You’re better off at home than here. It’s a good hospital—no, it’s a great hospital, no matter how some sons of bitches want to rank it—but you’re better off with us.”

  “I’d like that,” Marla said weakly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay. The doctor—not Dr. Sturgess, but the psychiatrist?—was in to see me a while ago, and he’s going to give me something.”

  “I know. I already have that sorted. Do you feel like you’re going to do anything like that again?”

  Marla shook her head. “No, I don’t. I just felt, you know, overwhelmed by everything that was happening at the moment. But the prescription, it’s supposed to help with that.” She put a hand on top of her mother’s. “Really, I won’t do it again.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay, then,” Agnes said cautiously. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Carol was in to see me,” Marla said. “I really like her.”

  “I’m lucky to have her. She told me this morning that she’s very worried about you.”

  Marla nodded. “That’s what she said. Even though I’ve only met her a few times, she really seems to like me.”

  “What about Dr. Sturgess? Has he been in to check on you?”

  Marla shook her head. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “No? Are you sure
you hadn’t just nodded off or something?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I mean, I’ve been sleepy, but I don’t think he was here.”

  Agnes took out her cell phone, called up a contact, tapped. She put the phone to her ear.

  “I always thought you weren’t supposed to use a cell phone in the hospital,” Marla said.

  “In my hospital, I can do whatever I damn well please. You— Damn, it’s gone to message.” She chose not to leave one and put the phone away. “Just a second.”

  Agnes left the room and walked up to the nurses’ station. “Has Dr. Sturgess been by?” she asked.

  No one had seen him.

  Agnes returned to Marla’s bedside. “Okay, why don’t we get you dressed.”

  “Tell me about it again,” Marla said dreamily.

  “Oh, sweetheart, no.”

  “Please. It’s so hard for me to remember; it helps when you tell me about it.”

  “But, darling, it’s too sad. I just can’t.” Agnes’s eyes began to moisten.

  Marla, still sitting up, rested her head on the pillow and looked off in the direction of the ceiling, her eyes not focused on anything in particular.

  “It is sad, I know that. But the thing is, I still had a child. A beautiful little girl. And she lived inside me for nine months, and I loved her, and I believe she loved me back. And I mourn her every day. I want to remember her, those few moments I got to hold her. But it’s a memory I have a hard time holding on to.”

  “Marla, sweetheart—”

  “Please, Mom? I know sometimes it’s even harder for you to talk about than it is for me, but believe me, I like to hear this.”

  Agnes took a deep breath through her nose. “I’ll do it, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Marla waited for her mother to begin.

  “After the baby came out, the doctor and I . . . even though we knew its condition, we—”

  “Her.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Her condition. Agatha Beatrice Pickens was never an it.”

  Agnes squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Of course she wasn’t. We cleaned Agatha up, wrapped her up tight in a blanket, and we propped some pillows behind your back so you could sit up, and then Dr. Sturgess put Agatha in your arms so you could hold her for a few moments.”

  “And tell me what I did,” Marla said.

  “You . . .”

  Agnes stopped a moment and turned away, but didn’t take her hand off her daughter. She took another breath and, once composed, continued.

  “You looked into Agatha’s face and you said she was beautiful.”

  “I bet she was.”

  “You said she was the most beautiful child you had ever seen.”

  “And then what? I kissed her, didn’t I?”

  Agnes closed her eyes. She could barely say the words. They came out in a halting whisper. “Yes, you did.”

  “On the forehead?” Marla asked.

  “Yes,” Agnes said, opening her eyes.

  It was Marla’s turn to close hers. “When I think hard, I think I can taste her. I can remember the feel of her on my lips. And the smell of her. I’m sure I can. And what happened after that?”

  “We had to take her away,” Agnes said. “The doctor took her away. And I let you rest.”

  “I was very tired. I think I slept for a long time.”

  “You did.”

  “But you were there when I woke up,” Marla said, and smiled. “I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve been since then. I know I’m not quite right, that I’ve gone a little crazy.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re fine. You’re strong. You’re a good girl and I’m very proud of you. You’re getting your life back on track.”

  Marla looked into her mother’s face. “I hope so. I don’t think I’ve given you much to be proud of.”

  Agnes leaned over the bed and took her daughter into her arms. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t think that for a minute.”

  “But I know,” Marla said, her voice muffled by her mother’s shoulder, “you’ve always been worried about what people think. I know I haven’t lived up to your expectations.”

  “Stop it,” Agnes said. “Just stop it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my friend. When I was in my teens. My best friend, Vera.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Agnes smiled. “I know. I’ve told you about her many times. About how, when she was twenty-three, and six months from graduating at the University of Connecticut, she got pregnant.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to listen. You need to hear this, even if I’ve told you before. It was actually her professor who got her pregnant. Those kinds of things happened back then, professors having affairs with their students. This was before that was seen as inappropriate, before sexual harassment policies. Vera was going to go to medical school after college; she wanted to be a surgeon, but when she got pregnant, everything changed. It was a difficult pregnancy, and she had to withdraw from her courses. And, of course, this professor was hardly going to leave his wife and marry Vera. He tried to get her to end the pregnancy, but her faith wouldn’t permit that. And so she had this child, and was on her own to raise it—her parents pretty much disowned her—and none of her dreams . . . none of them ever came true. Of course, she wanted to have a baby one day, but this child, it came at the wrong time for her. Her life could have been very different, and my heart aches for her every time I think about her. That baby came at the wrong time for her.”

  “Mom, I know. . . .”

  “What I’m saying is, I know how sad you must be, how devastating this has been for you. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be for you. It wasn’t the right time. Look at you. These Internet reviews, they might lead to something better, more rewarding. You’re moving forward. What happened last night”—and Agnes glanced at her daughter’s bandaged wrist—“is a bump in the road. A big bump, sure, but a bump in the road. You’re going to be okay. You’re moving ahead.”

  Marla’s eyes closed briefly. She was drifting off.

  Agnes released her daughter and said, “You start getting ready. I’m going to step out into the hall and call Dr. Sturgess to let him know I’m discharging you on my own.”

  “Okay.” Marla paused. “I say bad things about you sometimes, Mom. But I love you.”

  Agnes forced a smile, stepped out into the hall, walked past the nurses’ station, giving the staff a curt nod, and continued on down the hall until she reached a supply room full of linens.

  She stepped in, closed the door, leaned her back up against it to make certain no one would walk in on her, placed her hand over her mouth, and wept.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  David

  FROM Derek’s, I went to the address for Marshall Kemper that I’d gotten from Mrs. Delaney at Davidson House.

  It was, as it turned out, around the corner from Samantha Worthington’s place, and was little more than a low white box of a house that had been divided into two. There were two doors fronting the street, pushed to the far ends of the house, and two identical windows set beside them.

  Kemper’s apartment was 36A Groveland Street, the other 36B.

  I got out of the car, walked up to 36A, and, finding no doorbell, knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again, louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  I got my face up close to the door and called out, “Mr. Kemper? Are you in? My name’s David Harwood! I need to talk to you!”

  Stopped yelling and listened. Not a sound from inside.

  I walked over to 36B and knocked. I could hear a TV, so when no one came after the first knock, I decided to try again. A few seconds later, an elderly woman slowly opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “H
i,” I said. “I was looking for Marshall Kemper.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s the man who lives next door. You got the wrong place.”

  “I know that. He’s not home. I wondered whether you’d seen him around.”

  “Whatcha want him for?”

  “He’s an old friend,” I said. “I was passing by and thought I’d drop in on him. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t keep track of his comings and goings. But I don’t see his van out there, so I guess he’s not home. I’m missing The Price Is Right.”

  “Sure, sorry,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

  She was starting to close the door, then stopped, as if something had occurred to her. “Maybe him and that girl went off on a holiday together or something.”

  “Girl?” I said. “You mean Sarita?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe. Nice little thing. Always says hi to me. Oh, it’s the showcase. Gotta go.” She started to close the door but I put my hand up to stop it.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “When did you last see Sarita?”

  Third shrug. “Last night, maybe? I don’t know. I get the days mixed up sometimes.”

  This time, when she went to close the door, I didn’t try to stop her.

  So Sarita, if it was Sarita, had been here recently. Since Rosemary Gaynor had been murdered. Maybe Kemper had taken her in, was hiding her. Maybe the two of them had taken off together. Which strongly suggested they had something to do with the woman’s murder. The harder it was to find Sarita, the more likely it seemed to me that Marla really hadn’t killed that woman.

  Not that I’d found out anything useful so far that might help my cousin. Even Derek wasn’t willing to dismiss outright the idea that she could be a killer. Nothing she did would surprise him, he’d said. Not the sort of thing you wanted to hear someone say on the stand in front of a jury.

  I went back to 36A and banged on the door once more.